“Girls, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice quivering. “What a scene I made! Accusing you like that!”
“Where is my blanket?! Where is it?!” Margaret’s voice echoed through the flat, rattling the faded wallpaper in the hall. “Eleanor! Eleanor Margaret! Give me back my blanket this instant!”
“What blanket, Margaret?” Eleanor poked her head out from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “Have you lost your mind? What are you on about?”
“Don’t play innocent! My wool blanket, the one my late mother left me! I know you took it!”
Eleanor sighed loudly and stepped into the hallway, where the other residents of the shared house had gathered. Old Thomas peeked out from his room in slippers, and young Emily, clutching her baby, froze by her door, gently rocking the little one.
“Margaret, calm down!” Thomas tried to reason. “What a row you’re kicking up—the baby’s crying now!”
“I don’t care about the baby!” Margaret shrieked, flailing her arms. “My blanket’s been stolen! My mother’s blanket! The only thing I have left of her!”
“Will you please stop this?” Eleanor snapped. “What’s got into you? What blanket? I’ve never laid eyes on it!”
“Liar! Last night I washed it and hung it to dry in the bathroom. This morning—gone! Vanished! Who else could’ve taken it but you? You’re the one always meddling with everything!”
Emily slipped quietly into her room, avoiding the drama. The baby had indeed started whimpering at the noise. Thomas shook his head and retreated behind his door.
“Margaret,” Eleanor took a deep breath, “I understand you’re upset. But accusing me of theft? That’s too much!”
“Then who else?” Margaret planted her hands on her hips. “Thomas? He’s seventy-five—what does he want with a blanket? Emily’s got enough baby things to worry about! That leaves you!”
“Oh, stuff your accusations!” Eleanor threw up her hands. “I’ve had enough! First, it’s sugar missing, then milk, now a blanket! Maybe *you* misplaced it?”
“How dare you!” Margaret turned crimson. “Am I some lunatic, stealing my own blanket?”
“How should I know?” Eleanor huffed. “Maybe you forgot where you put it. We’re none of us spring chickens anymore.”
“Don’t you dare insult my memory!” Margaret banged her fist on the wall. “My memory’s sharp as a tack! I *know* it was in the bathroom!”
Eleanor sank onto the hallway chair, exhausted. Living with Margaret was becoming unbearable. Once just a grumpy neighbour, she’d morphed into a full-blown household tyrant.
“Margaret,” she said quietly, “let’s sort this calmly. Describe the blanket.”
“Wool,” Margaret muttered, slightly deflating. “Grey tartan, with fringe. Mum knitted it years ago. I’ve treasured it like the Crown Jewels.”
“And when did you last see it?”
“Washed it last night—by hand, with gentle detergent. Hung it in the bathroom. This morning—poof!”
Eleanor frowned. Someone *could* have taken it, but why? They’d all lived together for years. Thomas was a straight arrow, ex-military. Emily was a sleep-deprived new mum. That left her—but why would she want an old blanket?
“Could it have fallen?” she mused. “The line snapped?”
“I checked everywhere!” Margaret waved her off. “Bathroom, hallway, washing machine. Gone!”
“Odd,” Eleanor muttered. “Very odd.”
A hiss from the kitchen—something boiling over. Eleanor jumped up.
“Blimey, the potatoes!” She dashed off to salvage lunch.
Margaret lingered in the hall, scanning every nook. The blanket had vanished into thin air. Yet it wasn’t just a *thing*. When her mother passed, she’d kept little—a few photos, her glasses, this blanket. The rest had been divided among relatives.
It smelled of her mother’s bedroom, her perfume, the warmth of childhood. Margaret wrapped herself in it when ill, or sad, or craving her mother’s presence.
“Thomas?” She knocked on his door. “May I come in?”
The door opened. Thomas stood there in a worn jumper, newspaper in hand.
“Come in, Margaret. Just no shouting, please.”
“Sorry about earlier,” she mumbled. “But the blanket’s truly gone. Seen anything?”
“Sit,” he gestured to a chair. “Tea?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Thomas put the kettle on, fetched biscuits. His room was snug, military photos on the walls, books stacked neatly.
“Tell me about the blanket again,” he said. “In detail.”
She did. Thomas listened, nodding occasionally.
“See,” he said finally, “we all know each other here. No one would steal, least of all a blanket. It’s not cash or jewels.”
“Then where is it?”
“Could you have moved it? Maybe dried it elsewhere?”
“No!” Margaret nearly leaped up. “I’m not senile! I know where I left it!”
Thomas poured the tea, nudging a cup toward her.
“Margaret, when did you last wash it?”
“Two months back. Why?”
“Just wondering. Might’ve got tucked away? Behind a cupboard, under the bed?”
“I’ve looked *everywhere*!” Her voice cracked. “Mum’s blanket! All I have left!”
“Don’t fret. It’ll turn up. Things don’t just disappear.”
Margaret drank her tea and trudged back to her room. She ransacked it again—wardrobes, under the bed, the balcony. The blanket had vanished without a trace.
That evening, she returned to the hall. Emily was feeding the baby in the kitchen; Eleanor washed dishes.
“Eleanor,” Margaret ventured, “I’m sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Oh, never mind,” Eleanor grumbled, not turning. “Used to it by now.”
“But the blanket *is* missing.”
“Missing, schmissing. It’ll turn up.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Buy a new one.”
“A *new one*?” Margaret’s eyes welled up. “You can’t replace Mum’s blanket!”
Eleanor turned. Margaret’s face was so wretched she softened despite herself.
“Oh, don’t be such a child!” she said. “We’ll find it. Tomorrow, we’ll search properly.”
“You’ll help?”
“Yes, yes. Just no waterworks.”
The next morning, Eleanor kept her word. They scoured the flat, checked every corner, even the bathroom again. Nothing.
“Maybe a neighbour took it?” Eleanor suggested. “We don’t lock the bathroom.”
“Who’d want an old blanket?” Margaret sighed. “Faded, tatty.”
“You said it was lovely.”
“*I* think so. To others, it’s just a rag.”
They sat in the kitchen with tea. Emily put the baby down; Thomas read in his room.
“Margaret,” Eleanor said suddenly, “could *you* have taken it last night? Sleepwalking?”
“Don’t be daft! I sleep like the dead!”
“Just a thought,” Eleanor shrugged. “Dreamt something, maybe.”
Margaret pondered. Lately, she’d dreamt of her mother—alive, young. They’d talked, wandered their old house…
“Don’t remember,” she admitted. “But I doubt it.”
“Let’s ask Emily,” Eleanor suggested. “She’s up nights with the baby. Might’ve seen something.”
Emily wandered in.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“Margaret’s blanket’s gone,” Eleanor explained. “Did you hear anything last night? See anyone in the bathroom?”
Emily frowned.
“When was this?”
“Night before last,” Margaret said.
“Oh!” Emily’s eyes widened. “I *did* see it! It wasn’t hanging—it was on the floor!”
“On the *floor*?”
“Yes! Thought it odd, but figured you’d left it to dry. I picked it up and rehung it.”
“You *rehung* it?” Margaret gasped. “But it wasn’t there in the morning!”
“Dunno,” Emily shrugged. “I definitely hung it back.”
Eleanor and Margaret exchanged glances.
“Bathroom,” Eleanor said. “One more look.”
The three of them marched in. They inspected every inch—behind the washer, every shelf.
“Wait,” Emily said suddenly. “What’s *that*?”
She pointed to the slim gap between the tub and wall. Eleanor crouched, peering in.
“There’s something there!” she exclaimed. “Can’t reach it—too tight.”
“Let me,” said Emily. “My hands are smaller.”
She wriggled her arm in, feeling around.
“Got it!” she cried. “It’s fabric!”
With effort,
